Innocent
by AutChiChi
Summary: War doesn't kill the guilty, but rather the innocent. One-shot.


I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, nor the characters, which are owned by Hidekaz Himaruya. The story is the only thing I own!

Warning: Slight gore/slight description of an injury

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><p>A pop rang out over the field. It echoed and rattled through Arthur's entire body, the smile slipping away from his lips, his green eyes widened into teacup saucers. His companion's laughter had abruptly stopped and his form had fallen to the ground in a lump. Across the field, Arthur could spot someone dart away through the brush and disappear from sight.<p>

A seemingly happy moment between the two friends had transformed into terror.

Arthur could see him lying there, golden hair splayed out over the grass and red poppy flowers. He didn't want to believe it, his hands shaking so hard, his heart beating so fast it would jump from his chest. The gun fell out of his hands just as soon as he ran forward. He didn't dare yell, a million outcries blocked by the lump of his heart in his throat. He dropped down to his knees just as he reached him, eyes dancing over the shuddering form.

A bloody blemish bubbled out and rapidly spread over his tan uniform, choked, gurgling noises escaping Alfred's lips as he simply laid there. Arthur wanted to vomit at the sight, instead swallowing down his nausea and gingerly removed Alfred's hands from the injury.

"Artie?" the American choked out innocently, looking up at Arthur's pale face, the word making the flesh underneath Arthur's hands quiver. "What're ya doin'?" Arthur found he cursed Alfred's asinine personality at that moment, unable to stare into those pleading eyes full on.

"It-It's going to be alright," Arthur assured him, using one hand to press against the wound while fumbling in his bag with the other. He took out a handkerchief and gratefully pressed it against the bullet wound. "You're going to be alright, Alfred." The handkerchief turned into a pink color.

"I can't feel 'm chest," Alfred choked out, tears swelling at the corners of his eyes, his warm and sticky hands grabbing Arthur's wrists, leaving bloody smears. "I-I can't feel it."

"You're okay," Arthur said, more to himself now. Alfred's blood felt warm against his hands. He could feel Alfred's nails digging into the flesh of his wrists, those blue eyes wide with fright and panic. Tears swarmed his vision, threatening to blur his sight and spill over his cheeks. He wouldn't allow it, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

Arthur knew the soldier had lined up his shot flawlessly. Blood oozed into the soil, just as scarlet as the poppy's petals. One had itself placed by Alfred's head, drooping low, its crimson petals brushing against Alfred's ear. Everything else was mute and gray like the overcast sky but all Arthur could see was the red of the blood and poppies and the blue of Alfred's eyes.

The cloth now put to the side, both of Arthur's hands pressed against the injury. Alfred was warm, always so warm. He shuddered no matter how much he tried ignoring the texture of guts and tissue. It all felt too surreal. Arthur tried thinking about something, anything, but crying for help would only bring about surely unwanted attention.

They were so close, so close to leaving behind the war. Alfred had vowed continuously since his shipment into Arthur's infantry that he would never spill another's blood until the day he died. Surely, his vow would be granted and his innocence intact, something Arthur lacked. He had more blood on his hands than he could remember or count, but Alfred's blood stood out, grabbing his attention insistently. Why wouldn't it stop?

Alfred had his eyes transfixed on the Brit as his thin breaths whistled in and out of his mouth. He released his hands from Arthur's wrists and cupped Arthur's face instead, smearing it with warm blood. Arthur dipped his head lower, eyes pinched shut and shoulders shaking. He gently removed his hands from the injury and grabbed Alfred's hands, peeling them from his cheeks. Alfred held an almost pleasant expression, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. Slowly, so gradually that time felt so very slow, Alfred drifted off, his eyes never straying away, still smiling so innocently.

He held his hands until they grew cold. The bleeding stopped after a while, the knees of Arthur's uniform pants now drenched and stained with it. No matter how much he wanted to scream and cry, Arthur didn't dare do so in Alfred's presence. The boy wouldn't want that. Instead, he crossed Alfred's arms over his torso and closed his unfocused blue eyes, trapping them behind his eyelids. He got to his feet, shaky, yet miraculously stable. He plucked the poppy by Alfred's head and tucked it into Alfred's uniform breast pocket. He looked peaceful, dreamlike, and almost mistaken as being asleep. Arthur only wished that to be true.

He left the field and Alfred behind, too disoriented and lucid to grab his fallen gun. He walked for what felt like ages, not stopping to wash off the blood. It would always be there, underneath his fingernails, under his skin, in his blood, and in his dreams. It was easy to forget himself but it wasn't easy to forget those blue, blue eyes. How would the American's mother that he spoke so fondly of react? Her son lost to a war fueled by the blood of innocents. Alfred had been innocent, merely a farmer's boy with dreams as big as the sky back at his farm. Now the boy would never see that farm again, dead in a foreign land and on foreign soil. That was no way to die.

Arthur walked aimlessly, welcoming any German to stumble upon him and shoot him. None appeared, much to his disappoint. He found a town, the people ushering him into their arms and cleaning the blood off that had dried on him like a second skin. Yet, the entire time he couldn't get the image out of his head, and knew he never would. Arthur's outcome merely disappeared like the rest of the soldier's that lived through the Great War, but if you go to Arlington Cemetery, you will find Alfred depicted in glory.

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><p>I was in the mood for some angst and this kind of appeared.<p>

A poppy flower's meaning is that of sleep, peace, and death, including a symbol of WWI.

(And yes, that ending was a little hint that Alfred is the Unknown Soldier fictionally and in this au)


End file.
